


I invoke the right of parley.

by writersstareoutwindows



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writersstareoutwindows/pseuds/writersstareoutwindows
Summary: A last conversation. To fix this world, if it's to be his home. Or, at least, to try.(a possible moment from episode 66)





	I invoke the right of parley.

**Author's Note:**

> All my titles are now sentences and I truly couldn't find a better one, it's one a.m. but I actually felt motivated to write and that never happens, so, I had to write and post this right here right now.

He has not _been_ for decades. Time is...fuzzy, or simply meaningless, so he can’t measure it despite having been pulled dizzyingly back into it.

He is standing at the head of a conference table. Before him, their last chess game is still in play, though several pieces are overturned. But behind him, black pillars drip from the sky, threaded with ribbons of color.

He stares at his own hands as his body remembers how to be. Veined, wrinkled, fingers spread on the polished wood. He bends one thumb and feels bones creak beneath skin. The table feels silky, his skin rough. He hasn’t had his own hands in some time.

It is a while before his senses move outside himself. He feels his lungs expanding in his chest, listens to the breaths. Then he hears someone else breathing, too.

“Ah, of course.” He slides his hands together and, when he looks up, his face is perfectly composed. “Merle Highchurch. It’s been some time.”

And not simply since they last spoke. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up, to process in a way that he can understand as a single being. It’s taking him longer than usual to find the light. They’ve been hiding, somehow.

Merle is...different. Not having consciously experienced change since their last meeting, John has to study him before he can place it: he’s aged. Not much, but there’s white in his hair and a wrinkle between his brows that was never there before.

There’s fire in John’s hand already. They did not part well.

Merle says, “Stop. Just stop.” He puts his elbows on the table--bad manners--and rests his chin in his hands. His shoulders slouch. “Can’t we just talk like we used to?”

John sits in a chair that materializes beneath him. “I didn’t think we were friends anymore?”

Merle grins. “We were friends?”

John’s expression drops. “You haven’t done...this,” he twirls his finger around the room, “in years. What’s changed?”

Merle tucks his legs under himself so he can sit a little taller. He stares at the chessboard for a while, fingers steepled, before speaking.

“Do you remember whose turn it was?”

Black fire blasts the board into the air. Burning pieces clatter across the table, crumbling to ash that blows into Merle’s face. He coughs and wipes his eyes.

“What’d you have to go and do that for?”

“Merle, I am not interested in...small talk!” The term feels petty and inaccurate.

“Nah, you were just scared of losing.” Merle waves a knowing finger at him.

It feels inaccurate because--and the truth startles John--he’s missed this. He watches Merle over his raised, burning hand, listens to the unfaltering rise and fall of his breathing, taps a rhythm he didn’t even know he remembered with his other hand. Yes, he’s missed being. He’s missed the rise and fall of Merle’s camaraderie in the face of total existentialism. He’s missed the ribald ribbing, the honesty, the surprise whenever Merle offered genuine kindness. Not just the answers bringing him closer to his goal, no--he’s missed Merle.

So he does notice the worry lines around his eyes. The scruffiness to his beard. The stretched look about his smile.

“Something’s changed. I know, Merle, don’t try to hide it. You’ve found a way to hide from me. You’ve found a way to hide the light.” He waves his hand and the flames vanish. “Can I still ask my question for this year? That isn’t it. What’s changed?”

Merle sighs. “We chopped up the light to make it harder to find. I mean, you can’t get to it, but it’s a hell of a lot easier for other people to get to. And it’s--it’s pretty bad when they do. They, uh...we’ve gotten a lot of people killed.”

“Pity.”

“Not as many as you, for sure.” Merle distractedly picks ash out of his hair. “Um, so, I got a question. Can you just...stop?”

John leans back with a creak. “Excuse me?”

“Just stop looking for us. We beat you. I’m sorry, but, we did it, we beat you. You can’t find us. But as long as long as you’re out there looking for us, we have to leave the light like it is. That means it’ll keep hurting people. People will keep dying ‘cause of us.”

John stares at him. He’s not sure for how long--time is fuzzy, even here. The silence is tense enough to shatter with a word. Even after half a century, Merle continues to stun him.

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“As serious as the hell bleeding out of the sky behind you. Look, I’m trying to make a home of this world but I’m stuck between you eating it or my damn belt drowning thousands of people!”

A barking cough escapes John’s throat. “You turned the Light of Creation into a _belt?”_

“Look. We’re doing the best we can here. Why don’t you do the same? Take what you got, cut your losses, and just leave us alone. If we know you’re not gonna come knocking we can gather up the light and fix this plane.”

“I’m not--”

John stands. His chair falls over. He spreads his hands on the table again, frames his reflection on the tabletop. Stares into his own eyes. Sees nothing in them.

“You know what I’ve seen, and I know you don’t agree with me, but, Merle? That doesn’t change the truth. I have seen infinity, I have _been_ it, I have felt and touched and tasted it, and this?” He sweeps his hand across the table, torching his reflection. “This will never be enough. I’m not going to stop.”

Merle runs his hands through his hair. The gesture hides his face, but John sees his shoulders shake.

John looks at his hand. Black flames appear, and he can feel them in his palm, so hot that they’re like ice.

“Goodbye, Merle.”

“If you kill me, I won’t come back.”

John looks at him between his fingers. The wrinkle between his eyebrows is more pronounced, but his face is set.

“We won’t do another cycle. You can kill me, but I’ll be dead for good.”

Slowly, John closes his hand. The fire flickers but does not die.

“We’re not moving on, John. We’re gonna get it this time.”

John flicks his finger and a gout of flame scorches Merle’s beard. He doesn’t flinch, instead rising steadily from his chair.

“I’m not sure how this ends otherwise,” John says. But he lowers his hand. “I will find you, Merle. I’ll find the light. After all, I have, well...infinity.”

And, amazingly, Merle smiles.

“Guess I’ll see you at the showdown.” He hooks his thumbs in his belt loops. “Town square, high noon. G’bye, partner.”

For the first time, Merle does not burn. He simply fades. Like mist melting in the sun, he is there, and then is slowly gone. John walks to the window and watches ribbons of color weave between inky pillars until they, too, melt like mist.

He closes his eyes, leans back, and dissolves.


End file.
